Five Times Dean Never Said I Love You
by HellCat 1031
Summary: Fives times Dean Winchester never said I love you...and didn't really have to. COMPLETE!
1. Smell

Title: Five Times Dean Never Said I Love You

Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural. Darn you Kripke, and Bless you all the same.

Warnings: Language.

Summary: Five times Dean Winchester never said I love you…and never really needed to.

1. Sam grew up smelling the leather seats of a '67 Impala, the suspicious odors of rundown motels, the muskiness that was his dad's aftershave, and the grilled, beefy aroma that was Dean's latest heart attack-inducing cheeseburger. He grew up smelling sweat and blood and countless towns in forgettable states. All he knew was the smell of gunpowder and oil for lubrication and the sharp tang of _something_ in the air.

He couldn't remember ever not smelling dirt, gas and the phosphorous burn of a match for longer than a week—two tops. He knew the smell of rotting corpses, the incredible burst of dead tissue when the coffin is opened for the salt and burn. He knew the stench of sulfur in the air making the next breath tight and repulsive.

He remembered the smell of his father. It wasn't a physical smell…not really. It was like strength and skill and rigid rules. He figured if there was a smell that could be hunters…it would be his dad.

Dean smelled like…rock music and women and steadfast protection. If the smell of big brothers could be captured, he knew it would be Dean.

For seventeen years, he knew that smells that made the Winchesters, The Winchesters.

And so when on the night he packs his bags for Stanford, with his father raging and cursing somewhere outside with a JackDaniels-produced slur, he sees his brother stuff a black Metallica shirt with a ketchup stain on it in his luggage, he pretends he never saw. He backs away and waits a few seconds before stomping his feet--a little warning to Dean—and busting into the room.

His brother is leaning against the chipped windowsill, shoulders tense and stiff and turned from him, and his bag seems untouched.

Sam isn't even mad enough to throw that t-shirt away. It smells of the Impala, and that burger, and of _Dean_ that he couldn't have if he wanted to.

The Winchesters don't believe in good luck, they'd seen too much, and destroyed too much. Karma was a bitch and Sam didn't dwell on just why Dean sneaked one of his favorite shirts between flannel and plaid.

Even after _Dean_ faded, the t-shirt was never washed and would be crammed in his pillow before Jess got out of the shower and gone before she woke up the morning after.

It was musky and dirty and tarnished…but it was Winchester. It was everything never said and all the things that mattered most.


	2. Hear

_Warnings: None really. Teeny, tiny references to Heart and What Is and What Should Never Be. As in, blink and you'll miss it. Let's see if anyone catches it._

_Author's Note: A few days ago, I felt this sudden craving for "Five Times/Thing/Etc" fic, and I duly asked for it at __spnstoryfinders__. I started writing this right after I submitted it. I hope I didn't accidentally take anyone's idea. If I did, I apologize and beg you not to flame me._

_And thank you to everyone who reviewed!_

_Okay, now that that's done, on to story!_

2. They'd never been the touchy-feely, chick-flicky, bare-all-emotions type family. Not even when they were kids. There may have been a few pats on the shoulder, a couple affectionate hair ruffles, maybe even a noogie or two. But they were never the type for spontaneous hugs or deep words of tenderness—or even words that weren't so deep.

He figured that it was because of who they were. Too tainted with the evils of the world, they feared their touch would spoil. Maybe it was that.

Maybe it was the fact that the pain had been too close to the surface, too real and too consuming that it had taken all that they had to beat it down. And maybe because emotion was just another type of pain, maybe they forced that down too, so far that they just didn't know how to get it back out.

Maybe it was better that way.

He didn't really think about it. He didn't think he really cared either way.

He didn't need the words to hear to know what was being said.

He couldn't remember one time his dad or Dean wished him happy birthday. Or praise at a job well done when he got an A on that paper that had him frustrated and bitchy and screaming '_Dad, Dean won't give me back my pencil!'_ in a way that many would've said was slightly reminiscent of a two year old without his Lego blocks—or whatever had two year olds in such a rave back then, hell, how should he know?!

But then he remembered his Dad buying him a comic book instead of beer or bullets one May 2. He didn't read comic books, but that's okay, it's the thought that counts. And he remembered fiddling with the radio and settling on an Easy Listening channel for just a second before Dean's hand slapped against his with a _Bitch, don't even._

Less than fifteen seconds later, the channel changed back to the mellow tunes but Dean never so much as looked at him. Sam knew…he spent five minutes staring at his brother. Surreptitiously of course. Because Winchesters don't do blatant.

Unless it was female and curvy.

And even then, it was mostly just Dean.

He missed those games he wanted so much to be a part of but couldn't because _Sammy, little league doesn't save lives, killing this werewolf will!_

But then Dean told their dad that Caleb was in town, so he could help them hunt the overgrown, over-Rabies'ed dog. The day before the hunt, Dean taught him how to throw a curveball with the beat up baseball he got from _somewhere_ with initials just barely visible—a _T_ or possibly a _J_ and either a _W_ or a really crappy cursive _C_ after that.

He could remember seeing that baseball in Dean's luggage, and when his Dad was out hunting and/or late on night, he'd see Dean take out that dirty, ratty little thing and hold it close—after making sure that he wasn't looking.

Dean had given it to him after that impromptu lesson.

He'd never made the link until his brother told him about the genie and Dad's baseball team and that _one picture that wasn't real_ _but should've been, Sammy. It really should have been._

Yeah.

With his brother…he'd never had to hear the words.

_I hope you enjoyed the story! The next three parts should be coming out shortly, and I'm sorry for the few days wait on this one. I have no excuse but that I'm trying to beat out my writer's block._

_As always…reviews are awesome and they make me smile. So please…be awesome, review and make me smile! Thank you!_


	3. Taste

3. He always had been finicky. Even as a child. He could tell the difference between French vanilla and regular vanilla, between dark chocolate and double fudge.

And he'd always preferred the brand name, the expensive ones, not because they tasted better, just…because.

It was mostly what had Dean starting in at 'Francis.'

And it was mostly what made his father roll his eyes and sigh with some even mix of affection and exasperation.

He was the youngest. He may not have gotten everything he wanted, but he knew what it was, what it meant to be someone's youngest son, someone's little brother. It wasn't only the protection—though, God knows, he could've done with just a little less of that—but the sacrifices.

His brother had given him the last of the Lucky Charms, for crying out loud! If that wasn't sacrifice, damned if he knew what was.

Years on the road, all the times they had to pinch pennies, shook most of that pickiness out of him, after all, beggars can't be choosers and all that jazz.

But when at fourteen he discovered the near-orgasm inducing taste of half-caf, double vanilla lattes, it was love at first sip and everything after that was history.

His dad would bitch and whine and come out with a barking 'Samuel!' and a lecture on conservation of much needed money that didn't need to be spent over drinks that he was too damn young for anyway.

Dean would say something along the lines of 'pansy-ass' and female past lives with hazel eyes doing a little twirl around in their sockets and this shit-eating little smirk twisting his lips.

He remembered when the flu knocked him on his ass for three weeks. He couldn't smell, couldn't taste, couldn't talk without sounding like Kermit with a sinus problem.

Oh, he mourned the absence of that latte.

He remembered waking up the day after his nose cleared and his taste buds did their job again. He remembered the taste of the pancakes his dad had hastily cooked up, the taste of the slightly overcooked scrambled eggs.

And the taste of the latte his brother uncovered as he dumped the plates in the sinks with their grimy companions of a week before.

After that, he didn't mind Francis.

Too much.

_An: I am so incredibly sorry this took nearly two months to post. Life's been a bit of a witch and I've had to deal with and my internet has just gotten back on. The next chapter will be up in a few minutes. _

_Again, I'm so sorry and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please review! Thanks!_


	4. Sight

4. Dean's eyes could say a hell of a lot of things.

Sometimes, Dean's eyes could say so much more than his mouth could. Sometimes Sam knew exactly what was being said. Sometimes, the slightest flick of an eyelash or a barely there lift of an eyebrow would tell Sam everything he needed to know.

Sometimes he wanted to. Sometimes he didn't.

Sometimes he _really_ didn't want to.

Sometimes Dean would stare into his eyes and he felt like he was being crushed with the intensity of that gaze that could either be as bright as emeralds or as dark as tarnished jade.

And weren't those similes just a little melodramatic for him?

Sometimes just the fact that Dean wouldn't meet his eyes was enough. Silence speaks volumes, blah blah, yadda yadda. And god, sometimes Dean just knew how to be silent.

He watched those eyes blaze and flame with a fury so fiery, he wondered how everything didn't just burn in its path. He watched the shadows darken as burdens became too heavy and the mask just couldn't quite hold the weight. He saw the near defeat, the desperation, and the darkness that their job brought to them.

Sometimes, when Dean thought he wasn't looking, he'd watched those lids flitter down as though Dean just didn't want to see anymore. Sometimes, when Dean thought he wouldn't see, the pain would come and though his brother would deny it, a tiny wish for something better would sneak in then flee.

Sometimes when Dean looked at him, he could see a broken soul losing just one more piece of itself.

Dean had a huge heart. And this incredible spirit.

He had to. To be able to give so much of himself, he really had to.

Dean's eyes had a kind of power to them. A type of…something that just drew everything and everyone. The eyes are the windows to the soul had never been so true when he applied it to his big brother.

The sadness, the strength, the anguish, the determination.

But when Dean looked at him, it was something even greater. Something he just couldn't explain. Something that made him feel like everything was going to be all right even when everything in him was telling him it was all going to go to hell.

Something that made him feel safe.

Something that made him feel like he could be _saved_.

And something that just made his heart break because damn it, it was also something that told him that maybe Dean wouldn't be.

" _Did you sell your soul for me, like Dad did for you?" _

"_Oh, come on! No!"_

He had wanted to believe it. He had really wanted to.

But he couldn't. Goddamn it all to hell, he couldn't.

"_Tell me the truth. Dean, tell me the truth."_

Maybe if he begged, maybe if he hoped, maybe it would be okay.

It was Dean.And Dean made everything okay.

"_Sam..."_

And then he knew. He saw those eyes. He saw what that green gaze said that the lips didn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't.

"_How long do you get?"_

"_One year. I got one year."_

"_You shouldn't have done that. How could you do that?" _

"_Don't get mad at me. Don't you do that. I had to. I had to look out for you. That's my __**job**__!"_

The words were hoarse, cracking, and almost low. The eyes were screaming 'I had to' and 'God, please, you have to understand. I _need_ you to understand.'

"_And what do you think my job is?" _

"_What?" _

He saw the surprise. And the confusion.

And one more part of him faded away.

"_You've saved my life over and over. I mean, you sacrifice everything for me. Don't you think I'd do the same for you? You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."_

Finally, he saw the realization. And felt a tiny thread of hope.

"_And I don't care what it takes, I'm gonna get you out of this. Guess I gotta save your ass for a change."_

He saw the smile. A true one. From lips to eyes.

The lips had whispered affirmation. Tremulous and soft. As if it were fearful of wishing. Of hoping. Of believing.

But the eyes had said, 'Thank you' and 'I believe in you' and 'I love you.'

Maybe it really would be all right in the end.

The eyes had said it all.

_AN: One more chapter to go. And it should be up in the next couple of days. I hope you liked this chapter, and please, review! I love reviews. They make my day._

_Thanks for reading!_


	5. Touch

5. He'd put up with a lot of bruises courtesy of their monster of the week. He'd wiped up a hell of a lot of blood. He'd learned to stitch up the worst of wounds with the ease and experience of any seasoned surgical doctor by the time he was twelve.

He knew the careful, almost gentle movements needed to sew muscle, tendon, and skin back to together. He knew the agonizing, desperate pressure needed to keep blood from gushing out too quickly.

He'd been on the giving end of frantic hugs and bruising hands that were caused by terror and relief and everything in between. He'd held with tenderness and touches so soft, they were barely there.

When Jess loved him, it was pure, innocent love. Whispers of fingers against his skin, soft, flowing hair brushing his face. Quiet sighs and slow words. Jess had been serenity. Jess had been everything he'd ever wanted, everything his life never was. Never could've been. Jess was sunsets and walks on the beach and stay in Saturday mornings doing nothing but making love or watching the History Channel and laughing.

She had a way of touching him. A brush of long nails across his shoulders, fingertips down his neck. Her hugs were women's gentle curves with that leanness of slender muscle right under. Her touches were long, as if they'd have all the time in the world and rushing meant losing something that only gentleness could convey.

He missed that.

He missed that a hell of a fucking lot.

It didn't hurt all the time. Not like it used to. Once, it took his breath and crushed his heart and just made him want to scream. Once, the second he opened his eyes he wished he could close them again because _goddamn it, it hurt too damn much_.

Once it came in waves, in torrents that thundered and beat over him. Once, it was angry and overbearing and always there.

Now…well, now it still was always there. He figured it would never not be. But it wasn't like it was.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Dean helped. Dean helped make it better. And if he wasn't sure just what the hell it was that Dean made better, who the hell cared?

All he knew was that with every punch, every smack, every kick, and every hair ruffle, Dean made it just a little bit easier.

He was thinking he got the best the both worlds.

The easiness and tenderness that only Jess could bring. That hope, that nearness of normality, the disbelief when his dreams came true in the form of sunshine bright hair and eyes that made him think of fairies and spells and those stupid, never real happy endings.

Jess may have been his dreams but Dean was his life.

Dean was the steady hand that taught him how to ride a bike or shoot a gun. Dean was the outstretched arm that always broke his fall or kept him from stumbling. Dean was the constant pressure against his shoulder when they spent late nights researching or 'reacting' with the locals.

Dean was the never-failing solidarity when the hunt or Jack and Jose left him reeling and unsteady. Dean was the determined, never-shaken strength that looked evil in the eye, smirked, and sent it on its way with a 'Whoops' or 'Screw you later, bitch.'

Jess may have been everything he'd ever wanted, but Dean was everything he ever knew.

Dean was always there.

Dean had been there when the rest of his life began.

_Indecision and resolution warring_. _A letter burning in his pocket._

_Dad. Fury. If you leave, don't think about coming back! The door slamming closed. Finality._

_Dean. Hurt silence. Impala purring around him as they drove to the bus station. Dean's hand heavy on his shoulder right before he got out. Comforting. Saying goodbye. Take care, Sammy._

Dean had been there when his world ended.

_Blonde hair fanned out, mouth gasping in silent agony. Stains crimson against ivory. Fairy eyes dulled in pain. There was denial. Abject rejection of the terrible beauty above him._

_Then there was fire and heat and he couldn't breathe and he didn't want to. He thought he screamed her name. Refusal to accept._

_Then there was Dean. SAM! Bruising grip around his arms. Dragging him out of a fiery room. _

Dean had been there when his destiny changed.

_White hot pain in his back. Gasping for air with a too dry, too tight throat. The angry redness in the mirror. The door opening. _

_Dean. Disbelief, terror, relief—terrible, incredible relief in hazel eyes. An almost reverent whisper of his name, a thanksgiving to God. _

_Then a hug. A desperate embrace. Tight and suffocating. And Everything Dean couldn't say._

_But the pain wouldn't let him stay. He wanted to. God, he'd wanted to._

_A pained groan of his brother's name and Everything faded away as Dean stepped back._

Sam remembered. Sam would always remember.

He'd never needed the words. He always knew.

Because Dean's touch always said so much more than his words did.

_AN: Oh my goodness. I am so ashamed. I never would've imagined it would take me four months to post the final chapter. I am so sorry._

_Thank you to all of you who reviewed. I will be responding to your individual reviews throughout the day. I've just started college so my schedule has been…stressful (MAJOR understatement) lately._

_Should I post a final "And the one time he did…" chapter?_

_Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Don't forget to review!_


	6. Final

The end of his world didn't come as he expected.

The end of his brother didn't come as she expected. Poor bitch, she couldn't really have believed that a soul like his brother's would ever be hers. Or any of theirs.

Poor clueless, red-eyed, pathetic, skanky little bitch.

Dean went down fighting. There wasn't any other way he could've gone down. Sam was well aware his brother never knew anything besides fighting. Even when he was so damn tired or in so much pain, Dean would always be fighting—physically with deadly hands, feet and aim, or verbally with that smart-assed mouth of his.

He went down as Dean did. He'd learned it from him. If you're gonna go, you'd better go kicking and screaming with a gun in one hand and a fist in the other.

God, he'd learned so much from Dean.

Blood gushed and pooled. His and his brother's. He knew he wouldn't outlive Dean. He knew he couldn't. It would've been by his own hand if nothing beat him to it.

It was just truth.

Dean probably would've kicked his ass in the afterlife, but what the hell? It was all _he_ knew. _Dean_ was all he knew.

_­I couldn't live with you dead._

_And now I live, and you die?_

_That's the general idea, yeah._

But it didn't work out that way.

Their life never did.

And now, they both lay there. Broken and bloody. Side by side, barely a foot apart. As they were in life, so would they be in death.

He wondered who came up with that.

Dean was already gone. He could see it in hazel eyes gone dull. In the blood that no longer poured, that just stained the ground around them.

The hellhounds hadn't even had the chance.

They still had a week.

And the spell in his pocket, the dagger at his waist would've been his brother's—and his own by default—hope.

Dean didn't need it.

And apparently, neither did he.

"Hello there, little brother."

The voice came with the wind. And was gone with it. He might've felt it more than heard it, but still, it was there.

"We got ourselves into one of a hell mess, didn't we?"

Then there he was. Grinning and whole and just a little glowy.

"Dean?" He gasped.

Green eyes flashed. In worry, in apology. In everything else. "Yeah, Sammy?"

He felt the hand before he saw it. Warm against his cheek, comforting and solid.

He smelt his brother. The sweat, the leather, that smell that Dean always was. It was better than any cologne Calvin Klein could cook up, he thought.

"That light at the end of the tunnel?"

"Yeah?"

"It was a bomb, you idiot." He closed his eyes and leaned into that touch. It made the pain go away.

"Yeah. Who woulda thought?"

Damn fucking Gordon. And his merry band of hunters gone wild.

But hey…bastards got their due. Courtesy of the Brothers Winchester.

"Dean?" He whispered it this time.

Fingers wisped through his hair, "Yeah, Sammy."

Sam opened his eyes and looked up at his brother. "You're dead." And so am I.

Dean grinned. Little boy mischievous. "Get up, Sammy. Stop lying down on the job."

Dean grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt and pulled.

He leaned into unyielding support. Felt the world spin, tilt, then settle.

"Wha—?" He looked down.

They were gone. Or their bodies were. With only the crimson soil as evidence they had even laid there.

"Wha—?"

Dean winked and squeezed his shoulders, then those hands moved to his cheeks. "I love you, little brother."

He blinked. "Uh…okay."

It had been simply stated. No holds, no barriers, no hidden meanings. Just there, just straightforward.

Just _Dean_.

They weren't ghosts. They weren't demons.

They didn't get any older. Nothing changed. Time went away. Faded as their bodies had. Or didn't. Maybe they just stood still. Maybe they were the only constant.

As they were in life, so would they be in…everything after.

They didn't think they were gods. Dean had said they weren't good enough. But he had said it with a smirk and a glint.

Sam thought the exact opposite. They were _too_ good.

Gods stood back and let things happen. Whatever will be, will be.

Winchesters didn't. Winchesters wouldn't.

Dean had never said those words again. But the eyes still did. The touch still did. All the words that didn't say it did.

He heard it in the way he didn't. He felt in the smacks and punches. He saw it in the side glances, in the annoyed rolls and in the affectionate ones.

As they were in life, so would they always be.

Heaven might've trembled at the power, hell surely had wailed against it. It was a good thing they were more than gods.

Because neither heaven nor hell stood a chance against the boys who had always been, and probably would always be Winchesters.

_Finis…_

_AN: There we go, the last chapter of Five Times. This was actually turning out to be a new story, but I worked at it so that it could somehow be the first five chapters put together. I was trying to work out a way to have Dean tell Sam those three little big words without making it come out as wincesty—which one of these days, I will probably write—or OOC. I came up with him just coming out and saying it. Everything he is always says it much better._

_Thank you for keeping with me these past four months and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Don't forget to review!_


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